Retribution
by cepaul518
Summary: It was not long after he was released from the stupor imposed upon him by the Lich King that he gave up on humanity, for humanity had given up on him.
1. Prologue

Simon Spencer was dreaming.

He was plucking some amazingly juicy apples off a tree in the orchard. His intent had been to spend the entire day there, just lazily harvesting. Cassandra, his wife, packed him a lovely loaf of fresh-baked bread that he had been savoring all morning with some homemade butter. That was, until he saw the troops moving across the farm fields around mid-day.

He recognized them as Prince Arthas's men – the army and the militia alike – with their trademark banners and tunics. He watched them curiously with bits of apple hanging out of his mouth, wondering what their business was there. He couldn't understand why there were so many men, fully outfitted. Then he heard the screaming.

Looking back towards town, he saw that another brigade had approached from the opposite end. Several men in the unit seemed to be arguing, at which point a tall blonde paladin drew his sword and drove it into the chest of one of his officers.

Simon dropped his basket of apples on the ground and ran towards the end of a cul-de-sac on the main road where his farmhouse was situated. As he approached, the blonde paladin turned to survey the villagers; he appeared to mutter something. Simon recognized him as Arthas then, and fear seized his heart. Why was he in the village?

He reached his doorway just as the soldiers began scattering through the streets like a flood, kicking open doors, grabbing men and women by their hair, then dragging them outside to cut their throats. It wasn't long before the blood began running in rivulets down the creases in the well-kept cobblestone roads.

"Cassandra! _Cassandra!_" he had yelled frantically as he threw open the door. He desperately needed to flee with his family. He barged into every room of the house, and that was when he heard it – the terrifying undead wail of his infant son. The baby was in his bassinette, screaming in the most wretched inhuman way. Simon stared in revulsion at his son's ashen decomposing flesh. The shock of what was before his eyes set up a mental barrier against what was happening outside. The blood-curdling, howling cries faded away into the background, and he sank to his knees before the crib.

"Cassie," he choked. "Where are you?"

Someone threw a torch in through the window, sending jagged shards of glass across the floor. The curtains caught fire, and it quickly spread across the rug and ceiling. Not knowing what else to do, he scooped up his child to shield him from the flames. The baby seemed to snarl, and dug his tiny fingernails into his father's shirt.

Simon never had a clue that his wife had been a Cult member until she silently slid the dagger in between his ribs. He turned to see her glaring menacingly at him, eyes blazing, and her fist still clasping the jeweled hilt. This confused him more than anything. The pain of her deception was far greater than the pain of his wound. She had pierced his lung, and blood bubbled and gurgled out as it collapsed.

"I don't understand," he struggled for breath. "Why..." his struggling voice left him as he sank towards the floor, his glazed blue eyes begging Cassandra for an explanation. She took the baby away from his clenching fists as he fell. Leaving the dagger in his side, she stroked her husband's thick, dark hair before stepping over him and walking away. He tried to drag himself after her, but only made it as far as the front doorstep.

And then, Simon Spencer died alone in the street, in a growing pool of his own blackening tar-like blood.


	2. The Sting of Bitterness

_Spence._

Was someone calling him? Was that even his name? _But...I have no name_. Individuality was not known to him. He, among thousand of others, were nameless. They had been, at least, until it seemed as if they woke up all at once together. And that's when the nightmare really began.

"Spence...Spence! Where the_ hell_ are you?"

He jerked awake at the sound of someone barking his name, which successfully resulted in him toppling over backwards in his chair. The orc that had entered the blacksmith house jumped with a start, not expecting a seemingly empty chair fall over on its own.

"Spence," he growled, "I swear to the heavens that better be you." He drew his weapon and it raked ominously against its scabbard.

Spencer stood up and readjusted his armor before dropping his stealth. "It's me," he muttered.

The orc, Malek, sighed in relief. "Can I ask what you're doing in here? You're supposed to be guarding our resources." He was met with a scowl.

"There were like ten of us out there. We were standing around for two hours doing nothing, so I came in here to guard the chest." He pointed at the enchanted chest in the center of the room that regenerated the health of anyone that touched it.

"Well, it looks like most of them left. Get your ass outside."

Shaking off the nauseating remnants of the dream, Spencer made his way out the door. He was surprised with himself; normally he didn't just drift off like that in the middle of the battlefield. He usually didn't drift off at all, in fact. He rarely slept, not only because he didn't really need to, but also because of the nightmares. They were always the same. There was no peace for him. He hated to sleep.

"INCOMING!" a warlock named Constantina screeched. Quickly, he faded into the shadows and waited by the corner of the building. After several moments, a dwarf crested the hill riding one of those absurd goats. Spencer grinned darkly as he skirted the edge of the building to get closer. He found himself remembering the first time he ever killed a dwarf.

It was not long after he was released from the stupor imposed upon him by the Lich King that he gave up on humanity, for humanity had given up on him. He was running through the woods clawing at his tear-streaked face in disgust, trying to glean the rancid skin from his body. His hair was matted with congealed blood and his disintegrating limbs were exposed at the joints and sockets. The first time he ever saw his reflection in a piece of glass, he smashed it with his fist and tried to impale himself on one of the long splinters. It didn't work.

So he ran. It seemed ridiculous to try and run from himself, but it was all he could do. After running tirelessly for hours, he had come to a road in which a group of Alliance was traveling to a nearby outpost. He threw himself into their path, lamenting, calling to them for help. He needed them desperately, and he had been convinced they would greet him eagerly and show him mercy.

Greet him eagerly they did, with terrified cries, grimaces, long sharp blades, and attack animals. So he ran again. Many of them tired long before he felt an urge to stop, but there was a dwarf on one of those ridiculous goats that would not give up tracking him. The thought crossed his mind to just let himself be slain (undoubtedly by thorough disembowelment to ensure his demise), to end his agonizing, revolting existence. He was an unforgivable monster.

Spencer thought of his wife at that moment, and his son. An empowering yearning for vengeance consumed him then, and with a quick flick of his wrist, he had nearly decapitated the dwarf with the same piece of glass he tried to use on himself.

Now, in Arathi Basin, the inward bound dwarf was begging the same fate. Spencer stared at him and idly wondered how such a small man, no bigger than a child, could wield such intimidating weapons.

No matter. He wouldn't wield them much longer. As soon as the dwarf dismounted, Spencer advanced on him. The last thing the little chap heard before his spine was neatly severed was the creak of the rogue's leather boots and the jingle of his spurs. For good measure, Spencer ran the goat through with his sword as well.

The Alliance had forsaken him, and for that they could never be forgiven.


	3. The Clean Cutter

Malek's boisterous laughter resounded throughout the pub in the icy town of Everlook. "Spence," he cackled, "you're the craziest son of a bitch I know."

Spencer sat brooding and nursing a tankard beside his orc associate at the bar. He recoiled at the supposed compliment; he didn't really consider himself to be a particularly 'crazy son of a bitch'. "Why do you always insist on calling me that?"

The lively chortle came again. "Are you kidding? I saw the way you carved that dwarf today. If only you could see yourself. Most of us try to get the job done quickly so we can move onto the next, but with you…it's like art."

The rogue's eyes dimmed disagreeably as he stared down into his warm mug. "I just do what I do."

"Yes, but while most rogues just bounce about, hacking away, it's as though you're settling a personal score each time. You're not a disordered butcher like the rest of us."

Spencer shrugged dismissively and hooked his boot heels over the rail of his barstool.

"Don't make me bring up how we first met," Malek grinned.

The threadbare face of Constantina, the warlock, appeared from the other side of him. "Oh please, do tell."

"No, please _don't_," sulked Spencer. He got up to leave, but Malek's enormous meaty hand caught him by the coat collar. "Oh, no. You know how I love to see you squirm when I tell this story."

-----

Malek had been living on the outskirts of the Crossroads with family when his little daughter, Inya, was carried away by a malicious centaur. This one centaur, in particular, was known for his unwholesome interest in young girls. From time to time, a troll or orc child would disappear and be found later, ravaged and lifeless.

The centaur was easy to track this time; there were clear trails in the soil where Inya's feet had dragged. Malek finally came upon them both in a rocky mountainside crevice. He'd arrived before the creature had had his way with her, but the situation quickly escalated. The crazed centaur was holding the girl at knife-point, threatening to slice her ear-to-ear if Malek didn't turn around and walk away.

At that point, he saw something move out of the corner of his eye. To the orc, it appeared as if a section of the landscape had rippled, but he immediately recognized the distortion as a novice rogue that hadn't quite yet perfected his stealth technique. Luckily, the centaur hadn't seen it. Malek was more infuriated than he had ever been in his life, but he stayed put and watched.

"I'll do it," the creature was growling, urgency and desperation in his tone. "I'll open her throat wide open if you don't turn around right now." He slowly drew his soggy tongue up the girl's cheek for emphasis, and she sobbed in revulsion.

"_You don't have the balls,"_ came a daunting whisper. Before the centaur could challenge or react to the disembodied voice, his testicles had been cleaved effectively from his body. They spattered onto the rocks below. Malek's grateful laughter was quickly drowned out by piercing howls of agony.

After returning his daughter to the safety of home, he insisted on thanking Spencer with a visit to the local tavern. This eventually became a frequent practice for them, and they quickly developed a friendship.

-----

Constantina gaped in disbelief. "You really are a crazy son of a bitch. 'You don't have the balls', ha ha!" She almost tittered right off her barstool.

Spencer shifted uncomfortably and glowered at Malek. "That was a long time ago."

"Oh, you haven't changed. You've got this sadistic streak that's inspiring, really."

Was that really true? Spencer leaned on the bar and pensively sipped the froth from his lager. He never considered himself particularly vicious, but when he compared what he had been to what he was now, he may as well have been an entirely different person. Attempting to discern any kind of semblance with his former self was fruitless.

However, when Malek was depicting the story of his daughter, Spencer found himself recalling how much concern he had felt for the child. At that point he knew that he could never let the beast get away with such atrocities ever again, and took what action seemed appropriate. It was perfectly sensible to him at the time, but now that he thought about it, it was indeed rather cruel.

"That's a real fancy dagger you got there," the goblin bartender drawled, interrupting the rogue's ruminations. He eyed the ornately jeweled hilt hanging from Spencer's side. "How much you want for it?"

"It's not for sale."

The goblin scowled and ran his tongue over serrated teeth. "I'll give you thirty gold pieces for it."

"I said…it's not for sale."

"Uh huh. It's not that big, you can't do any real good damage with it against any reasonably armored foe. Why you need it?"

"Because," Spencer explained, without a trace of compunction, "I'm going to use it to kill my wife." He reached for the bowl of ambercorns and popped one into his mouth.


	4. The Start

_Author Note: Sorry it took so long to update. I've been kicking myself, but we just moved into a new condo, and work post-holidays is hell, and blah blah blah, you know how it goes. At least the good news is that I've been writing a tiny bit every chance I get (I actually zoned out during a meeting at work yesterday and got busted), and the little bit seems to have accumulated into a lot. This chapter's a bit short, but the next one makes up for it. I have problems determining where they should begin and end. Most of the trouble comes from trying to find time to sit down and tweak everything, so pardon any errors. I'll prolly come back to edit later. Enjoy!_

* * *

After Malek finished cleaning the front of himself post-beer spluttering, he forcibly pulled Spencer off by the foot of the stairs to have a private chat with him.

"You're _married?_" he hissed.

"Technically, yes."

"How come you didn't say anything?" Malek jerked his thumb back towards Constantina. "Why do you think I brought her here with us? She's sweet on you. I thought I'd be doing you a favor."

Spencer blinked, a little surprised. "Thanks…but no thanks."

Malek, sounding like a pubescent juvenile deprived of gossip, said: "How could you not _tell_ me about this?"

The rogue scowled. "Because," he snapped. "I don't particularly enjoy discussing the woman that murdered me and my son." He thumbed the blade of the dagger at his side. The mouth of his orc friend dropped open, and for once, he was at a loss for words.

"I want you to help me find her, Malek."

"Yes, yes…you know I'm with you. I can see how you'd want to pay her what she's owed. Do you have any idea where to start?"

"I think so," Spencer nodded thoughtfully. "She still has friends, I'm sure."

Malek slapped him on the back. "Then what are we waiting for?"

Constantina appeared in the stairwell. "What are you boys doing together here in the dark?" she asked mirthfully. The two glowing orbs of Spencer's eyes turned towards her. They narrowed in disapproval.

"We were just leaving," Malek said. "It seems we have a new mission."

Spencer stepped through the pub door into the muddy slush outside, his long leather coat curling around his legs in the wind. It was beginning to snow; he tilted his head back to squint into the grey, overcast sky. The breeze caught his collar as he turned back to look at his comrade...he could see the small, wan form of the warlock following Malek out.

"I'm sorry, but you can't come," he said to her callously.

Constantina stopped indignantly in her tracks. "Why not?"

"Because you're not experienced enough."

Malek gave her a contrite pat on the shoulder. "Go out there and get some more kills under your belt. Then you'll be ready."

She scornfully turned on her heel and marched back into the tavern. Malek shrugged at Spencer.

"You know," he mused. "She really could have helped us out. She's pretty skillful…as far as 'locks go."

"No," Spencer countered with an irately curled lip. He summoned his horse and took hold of the dragonhide saddle. "I don't need any distractions."

With that, he pulled himself up onto the steed and spurred the creature through the town gates into the white blanketed forest of Winterspring.


	5. Getting Nowhere

_Author's Note: Inovercy belongs to a LiveJournal friend of mine :) And I almost forgot - my boyfriend recently informed me that there's a human named Lieutenant Spencer at the first flag the Horde reaches in AV. Bwahaha._

* * *

It was a few weeks before they could sniff out a lead. One of Spencer's bounty hunter friends was able to sneak into Stormwind using an Orb of Deception and discover where a certain individual typically harvested materials. It was another few days before Spencer actually found her, quite by accident. And without Malek around. The warrior had slept in after a late night of trying to coax the guards away from Astranaar for a bit of fun with the Alliance dilettantes. 

Spencer was patrolling Moonglade, searching for indications of this particular individual's having been there, when he almost stealthed right into her. He was lucky she wasn't paying attention; draining souls from squirrels was keeping her busy.

"Hello, Inovercy." It had been a long time since he spoke Common, and in spite of the grating sounds his throat made, he could faintly hear a trace of his former self.

The human warlock jumped at the sound of her name and spun around. "Who's there?" she demanded. Spencer slowly let himself fade into view before her.

She clutched her scythe in alarm. "What do you want, you filthy creature!"

"Don't even think about it," he barked as he noticed her reaching for a soul shard from her bag. He didn't need any excitement with a demon today. She paused in mid-reach and they stared each other down.

"How have you been?" Spencer asked languidly. He was poised to quickly draw his swords if needed.

"Who _are_ you?"

Was he really that unrecognizable? Spencer shook his head in disappointment. "How could you forget an old friend?"

Inovercy had been his wife's closest companion. They were neighbors a long time ago as well, and their families often had dinner together. The two women periodically attended magic discipline lectures, but it wasn't until later that Spencer realized they had probably been sneaking away to Cult meetings.

"I have no idea who you are." She grimaced at him.

Spencer was growing impatient. "It won't take you long to figure it out. I don't want a fight; I just want to know where my wife is. Tell me where Cassandra is."

He allowed himself to be amused as a flicker of realization and poorly-hidden surprise showed on Inovercy's face. She was quiet for a moment, then said, "I don't know who or what you're talking about. Now leave, before I put you out of your disgusting misery."

The rogue sighed and drew his swords, sticking the point of one in the ground and casually leaning on it. "I'm really not in the mood to play games," he rasped. "I know that you're a spy for the Cult of the Damned hiding in the Alliance. I know that _you_ know—" he jabbed the point of his other sword at her "—where she is. So we can either do this the easy way, or the hard way."

She spat at his feet. "Go to hell, you monstrosity. The Alliance was right in abandoning your loathsome kind."

Spencer closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. Before she could regret her words, he was upon her.

_"Tell me where she is," _Spencer seethed, his emaciated fingers curling around Inovercy's tender throat. "Or I'll show you how much of a monstrosity I truly am."

She bashed him in the stomach with the butt of her staff, forcing the wind out of him. His breath quickly returned, but not before the warlock could retrieve a small garnet crystal from her satchel. Within seconds, a demon materialized at her summons, and Spencer's heart stopped. _Oh, no_.

It was a succubus.

Fear struck him…he began to frantically back away with a great urge to flee, but he knew he was feeling this only because of Inovercy's dark influences. By the force of utter willpower, he pushed the panic from his mind.

The succubus slowly turned to face him, a hand on her hip in a patronizing gesture. Her generous bosom jumped as she snickered like a little mischievous girl. Spencer stood ready, both swords waiting tight in his fists. He hated this…he hated succubae. He would have been willing to tangle with any other demon—imp, felhound, voidwalker, whatever. Anything would have been better than a succubus.

She slid a cloven hoof towards him and slowly unwound a long rawhide whip. Spencer didn't wait for her wiles to take hold; he bolted towards her, blade tips swinging in an arc towards a target directly between her perfect breasts.

The succubus spun about with grace, easily tangoing away from him like a matador from a bull. An overwhelming sense of confusion passed over Spencer, and he turned to see Inovercy casting relentless curses. He tried to stumble towards her, when without warning, his blood ignited with a very uncharacteristic sensation. Every one of his limbs tingled as a warmth stirred within him.

_Well, now you've gone and done it_, something annoyed and vague said in the back of his mind. It sounded a bit like his own voice.

_Shh_, he snapped, staring longingly at the striking demon. She was coaxing him with the promise of ultimate pleasure in her scorching eyes.

_Wake _up_. You almost didn't make it out alive last time…_

Was he arguing with himself?

Now completely oblivious to Inovercy, he watched the succubus in awe. She gave him a sly beckon with a long-nailed forefinger. Spencer was surprised to find himself smiling like an enthusiastic dolt as she licked her lips in an amazingly arousing manner.

He dropped his swords at his feet and stalked towards her. "I'll indulge in you first," he snarled. "Then I'll kill you."

_STOP_. The voice was growing more adamant.

The succubus looped her whip around his neck and pulled him close, grinding her pelvis against his lanky hip. He shuddered with delight. She looked keenly into the vacant, fading light in his eyes, eyes that would at any other time reveal greater intelligence.

He leaned in to bury his face in her graceful, succulent neckline, when she purred into his ear, "Don't touch what you can't afford." She stroked his leathery cheek and tightened the whip around his neck…and continued to tighten it.

Spencer eagerly allowed this. If she was into that eccentric, perverse foreplay, he surely wouldn't mind trying something new for once. It had been quite awhile for him (_years_, the exasperated voice in his brain pointed out), but getting back into the swing of things shouldn't be too difficult. Especially with such an experienced creature as his partner. He wagered he could learn a whole slew of new—

_WAKE UP, IDIOT_.

With that, the dullness in his gaze evaporated. His eyes flared as he struggled to push away the foreign prevalence and regain control. Inovercy's weakness and confusion curses had faded, and she was charging up to cast an onslaught of spells. Finding that he was unable to move his head, he tore his gaze away from the succubus and searched for the warlock in his peripheral vision. He saw her briefly, but caught sight of her hands. There was an odd disruption around them, as if all the light was collapsing into nothingness.

Spencer was beginning to falter under the effects of his strangulation. The undead were "blessed" with a need for less oxygen, but it wasn't without limits. He needed to do something quickly before Inovercy cast her shadow spell.

With the succubus still latched onto the whip firmly entangled about his throat, he wheeled her around so that she was between him and his foe. Inovercy let loose the spell, but instead of striking her intended target, it hit her own minion square in the back. The succubus screamed.

"You make a better shield than a lover," Spencer choked wryly as a set of wrist blades shot out from his jacket sleeve. He drove them into the demon's ribcage, and she, along with the whip, dissolved into a wailing mass of black vapor.

Before Inovercy could cast another spell, the rogue vanished. He hadn't left of course, and she knew it. She backed up against a large tree to prevent any sneak attacks from behind. Spencer gave himself a moment to recover. He hated feeling so easily...compromised.

"Come on out, Simon. I know you're there."

Spencer flinched at the sound of his first name. It had been a very long time since he had heard it spoken, by a human woman at that. He waited nearby, completely still and invisible.

"She did love you at one point, you know," Inovercy continued. "But the power was just too great to refuse. You know that. You felt it."

_But she had a choice_, Spencer thought resentfully. _I didn't_.

Inovercy slowly reached into her bag.

"Not that again," he growled, miffed. Acting quickly, he flipped a fistful of blinding dust into her face. She dropped the stone and fell back against the tree, gasping. The rogue flashed back into view and retrieved his weapons from where he'd dropped them. Inovercy pawed at her face in an attempt to relieve her burning eyes.

The point of one of his swords made contact with her sternum. It sank in easily at first, but he had to twist it and plunge harder as it met resistance. The other sword went easily through her shoulder, right below her collarbone. He had, in effect, staked her to the tree. He actually needed to put his foot on her to pull the swords out, since they had gone through into the fleshy bark behind her.

The one in her chest was tough. He finally had to bend it a great deal to rip it out, the sound of bone splintering and innards scattering as he did so. Gore pelted his face.

"Damn it," he muttered. He hated making a mess. He wiped some of the blood from his cheek and unceremoniously licked it off his fingertips. "Hm."

_All that for nothing_, he thought angrily. He curled his fist and drove it into the tree.


	6. Home

Spencer watched a large cockroach scuttle across his boot as Malek stood over him, ranting in his predominantly loud and gruff way. He was sitting outside the inn at Splintertree Post, quietly trying to ignore the lecture he was receiving.

"...Stupid, stupid, stupid," Malek was grunting. "You should have told me you were leaving. Then I could have helped you_ interrogate_ her before you gutted her."

The insect was making its way up Spencer's leg now, traversing the steep, jagged peaks of his trouser creases. It halted at the sharp inflections in Malek's voice. Spencer leaned his head back against the cool stone wall and stared at the small creature while it cautiously resumed its course and began to precariously navigate its way over his knee.

"Are you listening to me?" Malek barked in irritation. He looked from Spencer to the cockroach, then back again. "If you want me to come along on this little escapade of yours, then you need to keep me informed of your plans."

The rogue was well aware that he'd made a mistake, and didn't feel that he needed Malek to berate him over it. He knew perfectly well that he had overreacted and it had cost him an important source of information. But now he was more concerned about what he was going to have to do next. He held his hand out as the cockroach reached his thigh, and it skittered into his palm. Malek heaved an exasperated sigh, and Spencer smiled as the creature flitted its way across his frayed fingers.

"I don't understand," Malek said, suddenly switching gears. "How are you still married to this woman? Didn't your wedding vows say something like 'til death do us part'? I think your…em, _condition_ has rather set you free."

"But I'm not truly deceased." Spencer heaved to his feet, cockroach still in hand. "I mean, I died, but…I'm still me. I still have my soul." He gently stroked the cockroach with a furrowed brow. "I still have my soul…."

"So where to next?" his friend asked.

"There's only once place I can think of." Spencer sighed uneasily, then shook his head with displeasure. "I have to go back."

"Back where?"

"…Home."

"You mean to Adorhal?"

The rogue nodded. It was an option he had been dreading. He hadn't been there since it all began, and for good reason. Not only was the area infested with spiritless corpses, ghosts, banshees, and other servants of the Scourge, but his own memories and feelings would surely haunt him as well.

"Are you sure you're ready for that?" Malek asked with concern.

"It's the only alternative I see at this point." Spencer lifted the cockroach to his shoulder where it settled calmly, its tiny bulbous eyes twitching this way and that in curiosity.

* * *

It took a day or so for Malek and Spencer to make the treacherous journey from Undercity through the Western Plaguelands to the ruins of Andorhal. Their trek was constantly impaired by a variety of mangy, diseased animals, not to mention the occasional wandering zombie in search of fresh flesh to consume.

Now, after entering the town with seemingly no enemies in sight, the rogue stood before an old collapsing stone archway that had once supported a beautiful mahogany door. It was like some kind of muddled gateway to the past, through which he was dreading to enter. He looked around again, the uncharacteristic quietness of the town putting him greatly at unease. He had been certain that the place would be crawling with various fiends. Instead, a silent, cold wind blew through, ruffling his collar and setting his hair on end.

Spencer took a deep, hesitant breath before stepping across the threshold into the ruined foundations of his house. He surveyed the rubble of the decrepit edifice while trying to keep his reminiscing at bay. His expression darkened as he looked for anything recoverable that may lead to clues of his wife's whereabouts. The roof was gone, most of it in a charred pile on the east side of the structure. His throat constricted as he saw a piece of mangled wood that had once been ornate crib paneling. He immediately looked away to ignore the urge to touch it, and began sifting through the blackened wreckage. He kicked broken shingles and shards of glass to clear a path down the hallway.

Moving into what used to be the bedroom, he saw that the bed was still intact, but was partially buried by the collapsing roof. At the foot of the bed was an old iron trunk in which Mr. and Mrs. Spencer had stored many of their valuables. He rested his gnarled hand on the fire-scarred top of the chest, its frigid surface sending a dagger of cold dread through him. Holding his breath, he carefully lifted the rusted latch and opened it. The contents inside had been protected from the fire, save for bits of ash that had filtered in. A sharp twinge traveled up Spencer's spine as he peered inside; delicately, he lifted out the black silk embroidered shirt that he had worn on his wedding day.

It was tunic-cut, with long sleeves and large cuffs, and a bureaucratic standup collar. He pulled the material through his fingers repeatedly, feeling the texture, hoping its softness could some how silence his growing discomfort. Against his better judgment, he folded it into his satchel for safe-keeping.

The corner of something metallic caught his eye, and he reached in to lift it out—it was Cassandra's old trinket box. Inovercy's comment resonated through his brain.

_She did love you at one point, you know._

He slowly opened the lid and the small metal gears inside ground to life; he had forgotten that it played music. The once merry tune was now strained and poignant after years of neglect. Spencer sifted through the old, worn jewelry as the twanging played on. Earrings, combs, bracelets…he noticed her wedding band was not there. Another ring caught his eye though, one that was very large and heavy. He pulled it out and snapped the case shut to silence the eerie music. There was an enormous blood-red stone set in the top of the ring, with gilded threads running throughout. There was some kind of crest with lettering about the base of the stone. Spencer blew the dust out of the crevices and peered at it closely.

"School of…Necromancy?" he said aloud.

"What have you got there?" Malek said as he approached from behind, tripping over blackened pieces of wood.

The rogue stared open-mouthed at the inscription and brought it closer to his face in disbelief.

_Cassandra hadn't just been sneaking away to cult meetings…she had been an actual student at that damned school._

He tightly wrapped his fist around the ring, mind racing with possibilities and plans. He chewed pensively on his knuckles and spent several moments in stillness while the orc stared at him expectantly.

"Malek," Spencer said finally. "We're going to Scholomance."

There was a hesitant silence. Instead of an objection, he heard "We're going to need more help then."

"Do you have any idea of whom else to bring along?"

A wide grin spread across Malek's face. "Oh yes," he said. "Yes, I do."

"Then let's get out of here."

Malek nodded. "I'll meet you in a moment. Nature is calling. It might…take me awhile."

Spencer screwed up his face is disgust. The last thing he could imagine doing was exposing his rear in this particular locale. Who knew what was lurking about, staring at the naughty bits of unsuspecting victims. He could only imagine the lack of dignity if he were to get caught off guard or even killed with his pants down around his ankles.

Malek departed the rubble of the house and made for the forest treeline. Spencer was sure to go in the complete opposite direction, as well as upwind, which took him near the center of the town. Curiosity got the better of him as he approached the old marketplace promenade that was lined with the tavern, inn, court house, church, and other assorted run-down buildings that he could clearly remember frequenting. He recalled dancing and drinking at the tavern with his wife and friends, getting his marriage license at the courthouse….

Something rustled. Spencer froze in midstep as the moist, dragging sound became more prominent. It seemed to be coming from the alleyway beside the butcher shop. _…Malek?_ he thought. Silence for a moment, and then a long, steady, groaning slurp. Spencer's eyes were glowing enormously now, as he stared at the corner of the building. Right around it was something very, very large. Something definitely not Malek.

_Crunch. _And whatever it was, it was eating.

Immediately, he willed himself invisible. But it was too late…and he was in a bad spot. At least three of the abominations that emerged from the inn had seen him before he could stealth, and they were approaching fast. He didn't understand how they could move so quickly with their extremities and entrails dragging on the dirty brick street. One of them swung a bloody severed limb in his general direction (which happened to be at his head), and he ducked while simultaneously sliding a sword into the creature's bloated gut. Black, greasy bile spilled out, causing Spencer to wretch and reel away with nausea.

Now that Spencer was in sight again, the other two monsters ignored their fallen companion and barreled after the rogue. Spencer was prepared to slay them both, when he realized he had gotten too close to the butcher shop alleyway. Several more of them lumbered out from the rubbish heap, screeching and wailing their horrific clamor.

"Oh…shit."

Spencer reached into his bag for some flash powder and found none. In horror, he realized that he had forgotten to buy more when he was in town…he was unable to vanish. It was then that he began to panic.

"Malek!" he cried out. He had both swords unsheathed now, attempting to hold two of the beasts at bay. Four others encircled him. Where the hell had the orc gone?

There was a sharp whizzing sound then, followed by a loud _thwap_…Spencer looked down to see a trembling arrow embedded in his shoulder. He couldn't see beyond his vile attackers, but he could hear the distinct laughter of a dwarf somewhere beyond. Typical Alliance waiting for the most vulnerable moments of their enemies before attacking. A string of obscenities flew through his mind, but his failing strength made it almost impossible to move his lips.

A halo of light exploded around him then…but before he fell unconscious from the poisonous arrow, he thought he saw Constantina on the hill, her mossy hair billowing in the wind and her eyes raging like the sun.

This confused him. _How…?_

The creatures blocked his view, and he made one last half-hearted lunge with his weapons before slumping into a heap on the ground beside the rotten, maggot engorged waste from the long-forgotten butcher's shop.


	7. The Encounter

_I think he's coming around._

Laughter.

_Haha, keep doing that, it looks like he's really enjoying it._

The wind tousling Spencer's hair and neck felt strangely like small, delicate fingers. It was pleasant, nonetheless. Nothing was better than a good scalp-caressing. He stretched and shifted slightly to get more comfortable beside the fire that someone had made, then noticed his head was being cushioned by some kind of soft fabric.

He opened his eyes and blinked several times. It took him a moment to realize he was staring up into Constantina's concerned face. He was lying in her lap. The gaunt heart in his chest seemed to tremble for a moment before he abruptly jerked himself sitting upright. His head spun like a top and he doubled over.

"Take it easy, the poison's still working its way through your system," Malek advised from the other side of the fire. He was roasting some kind of snake that he had impaled on a stick.

"What happened?" Spencer panted. He propped himself up with his hands and tried to focus in on his friend.

"Well, you went into one of your 'crazy-son-of-a-bitch' routines again…now I'd have to say that you're just a _lucky_ son-of-a-bitch."

Spencer warily glanced at Constantina, giving her an admonishing glare when she gingerly reached out to steady him.

"I thought I told you not to come," he snapped as he shrugged her hand away. "What are you doing here?"

"She saved your life," Malek cut in. His dinner on a stick was popping and crackling from the heat. "She actually sacrificed her voidwalker for you…I arrived when that moronic dwarf hunter did, and heard you calling. I chased him off, and Constantina took care of the Scourge monsters that almost tore you into tiny bite-sized pieces."

Constantina sat quietly with her hands in her lap as Spencer quivered with nausea. "We need to get you back to town," she murmured. "You need to rest where the Apothecary can keep an eye on you—"

"I can take care of myself." Spencer retrieved his hearthstone from his bag with a trembling hand. Looking at Malek he said, "I'll see you in Orgrimmar." The stone warbled faintly, bathing him in a brilliant green glow. With a flash, he was gone.

Malek looked ruefully at Constantina; she heaved a sigh and bitterly chewed her already-ragged lip.

* * *

It took a day or so for Spencer to sleep off the poison; he hadn't bothered to visit the Apothecary or make an anti-toxin bandages. He had simply taken the first room offered to him at the inn and promptly collapsed onto the shabby hay-stuffed bed. Luckily, he had slept as though he was in a coma and could not remember his dreams, if he had even dreamed at all. In fact, it was probably the best rest he'd ever had.

In the evening, he finally roused himself and prepared to go out to meet Malek. He was looking in the mirror, noting how he looked more sunken and unhealthy than usual, when someone knocked on the door. Spencer sighed heavily as he dumped his gear on the bed.

_Now what._

Constantina didn't bother to politely inquire if she could enter. She pushed vehemently past as he clicked the old wooden door open, strode to the center of the room, and then spun to glare at him with arms crossed. She didn't bother to ask how he was feeling, either.

"What is your problem?"

Spencer was still standing at the door with his hand on the knob. He gaped at her.

"With me," she clarified. "What is your problem with_ me_?"

Slowly, he shut the door without releasing the handle. "I'm not sure what you mean..."

"_Don't_ give me that." Her eye sockets smoldered angrily. She turned away from him before going off on her tirade. "I don't understand why you seem to think that I'm completely incapable of anything. I'm not some...some_ novice_ straight out of the tomb. I'm nearly finished with my training, I have high reputation with the major cities and factions, I..." she whirled around with renewed anger and stormed towards him.

Spencer found himself backing up against the door in alarm.

"Just who do you think you are, Mister High-and-Mighty Rogue?" she fumed with her jagged finger in his face. "You know, your kind are a dime a dozen. You're all the same—pompous assholes that think they can handle everything themselves. I offered to help; you refused, and look what happened."

Constantina was really in his face now, her chest nearly pressing up against his. He swallowed and reflexively gripped the doorknob a little tighter. When she ran out of breath, he finally spoke.

"You think that _I_ think you're not good enough, and that's why I won't let you follow us around?"

"Well, that's what you said," she snapped in response.

Spencer had certainly implied that at one point, he recalled. He heaved a long sigh and tried to devise what to articulate next, but it was impossible to think with her right up against him as she was….

There was an expectant silence from him, and she seemed to realize that she was terribly invading his space. As she took a step back, Spencer detached from the door and stood up straight in attempt to regain an authoritative composure. He was about a head taller than she, when he wasn't hunched. He almost seemed like a real man again.

"I remember," Spencer began with a small smile, "when you_ were_ a novice straight out of the tomb."

It was around the time that his guild had formed when Spencer first met Constantina. She had been a gauche warlock in the beginning, sending her minions about on reckless rampages in a struggling effort to learn how to properly control them. He really never got to know her, since he was antisocial for the most part, except when he was visiting the local tavern with Malek. Occasionally they'd hold small, uncomfortable chit-chat conversations during guild events and parties…he had learned that she was roughly twelve years younger than he was, based on their ages when they died.

Spencer was well aware of her experience now; she could now harness the power of the most intimidating demons and wield them effortlessly. She had truly grown in her capacity. In fact, he would probably be inclined to never duel her.

"You know I'm good enough," Constantina said softly, rousing him from his thoughts. "We've done missions together in the past; I've never let you down."

Something at the back of his mind was nagging him.

"Why are you always so concerned about me?" Spencer suddenly wondered aloud. He knew enough from Malek's schoolgirl-esque tittle-tattle of course, but for some reason, he wanted to hear her directly admit her affections for him.

He stepped closer. "Why _did_ you come here tonight?"

She looked up at him with eyes wide and bright, caught off-guard. "I...it's just that Malek always invites me to come along on your ridiculous jaunts, but you always get so annoyed when I show up. I don't want to sound like a sulking child, but I want to know why." She was stuttering a bit.

…_Tell me_, he silently urged her. If Spencer had pupils, they would have been dilated and dark as night.

He blinked, then suspiciously looked around the room to make sure her succubus wasn't there. No demons were present, yet he could feel that alarming warmth stealing through his desiccated blood vessels once again. Tilting his head a bit, he looked critically at her face, noting how well her young skin had been preserved during her transition from life to undeath. She had barely been an adult when it happened.

"_Well?_" she persisted. She shifted a bit, expressing discomfort in his odd, intent look.

He was fighting back rising anger now, anger that was brought forth from him not being able make her understand that it was all for her own protection. Her youth had been stolen. He knew she could never lead a normal life, but he didn't want to put her into unnecessary dangerous situations. That point he could not make her understand, among other things that he could not bring himself to acknowledge...

"Spencer, you honestly need to stop staring at me so."

He pinched the bridge of his nose as if staving off a headache. "...Yes, Malek. Well, he and I often disagree over many, many things." He moved towards the bed where his belt and swords were laying. He buckled them around his narrow waist and turned to retrieve his oilskin coat draped over a nearby chair.

"Where are you going?" Constantina asked in aggravation.

"To get something to eat." He quickly strode towards the door, boots thumping on the hardwood floor.

"But you still haven't answered my question!"

"I really don't think—"

"Stop toying with me, damn it!" Constantina stomped her foot with frustration. The wooden panel under her made a small splintering sound.

Spencer ground his teeth, jaw muscles working, and turned back as he exited. "If you really must know," he spat, "I don't want you around because you remind me of…_her. _You remind me of my wife."

The last thing he saw before shutting the door was the lovely young warlock's jaw drop in utter shock.


	8. Booze Fights For the Lose

He really shouldn't have said it quite like that. Spencer felt instant regret the moment the words flew from his mouth, but it was too late. He should have explained it to her, clarified it a bit, rather than just leaving and slamming the door in her face. But he couldn't stop walking away.

Constantina shared many qualities with his wife. Their personalities were similar—they were both young, headstrong, demanding women. Even their physical traits were comparable. There were just too many things that made him reminisce…about the good _and_ the bad.

Spencer shook his head in self-loathing. There was no way he could have confessed to Constantina that he saw in her the qualities that had once made him fall in love with his wife. She had obviously interpreted his comment differently. Without a doubt, she perceived that Spencer associated her with an evil, deceitful bitch. Which wasn't entirely untrue…this was one of the reasons he found it difficult allowing her to get close. And _damn_ Malek for constantly telling her where they were going and what they were up to.

He sat at the bar downstairs and picked at a thick, bloody top sirloin. He had been ravenously hungry earlier, but he couldn't bring himself to enjoy the lovely, lean piece of beef. A nearby Tauren gave him a dirty look; Spencer ignored him and ordered a pint. Sucking the foam off the top, he began to swallow the bitter liquid when he saw Constantina's feet descending the stairs. Promptly, he set his tankard down and stealthed.

_What an idiot I am_, he thought to himself. He buried his palms in his eyes. What was he, a skittish adolescent boy?

He looked up to see her paused in the foyer of the inn, looking back in his direction. He knew that she couldn't see him, but was rather staring through him at his semi-eaten steak. Her face tightened in scorn, and she quickly made her way out. Spencer waited several moments before making himself visible again. He briefly considered going after her, but found himself ordering another lager instead.

* * *

Three hours and six pints later, Spencer was in trouble. It had been a very long time since he'd had so much to drink. His small frame didn't have the tolerance it used to when he was alive and had a regularly functioning liver. His steak was completely destroyed now, for after the fourth lager, he though he'd be clever and try to eat it with one of his swords. The orcs nearby got a good laugh out of it, but the Tauren got up in disgust and left with a flick of his tail.

Spencer was eventually asked to leave or go up to bed, so he stumbled outside into the streets of Orgrimmar to cool off in the night desert air. He reflected on Constantina as he wandered, spurs jangling irregularly. The wind blew through his hair and clothing, and he closed his eyes to feel it leach through him. It was chilly out, but the alcohol had diminished his senses. He felt stuffy and hot, and tugged on his collar in an attempt to let more of the breeze in.

He needed cold. Much more cold than this. Relying too heavily on his faltering eyesight, he made his way to the Valley of Honor to speak with the battlemasters.

"Are you sure you're fit to fight?" Kartra Bloodsnarl asked him as she picked her own well-savored dinner out of her teeth with a jagged machete.

"Indeed I am," Spencer slurred. "I'm in the mood for some slaugh-ter tonight." He spoke in annoyingly sing-song voice and swayed in a rather unsteady manner. The orc eyed him doubtfully, but seemed hardly concerned for his safety or lack of good judgement.

"Kill one or two for me," she said as she opened a portal for him to Alterac Valley.

Spencer materialized in the wintry, dark cave that led into the valley. A gust of wind traveled down the tunnel and blasted him in the face, reviving him somewhat.

_Just what I needed._

He stepped out of the mouth of the cave into the powdery snow, his boots sinking in with a muted _crunch_. It seemed that the battle was already well underway; he was going to need to hurry to catch up. The area around the cave was completely deserted. Quickly, he began to call upon his horse.

Before the beast appeared, the sound of thundering hooves pounding near gave Spencer a start. He whirled around to see a massively armored felsteed bearing down upon him, fetlocks, eyes, and nostrils streaming alight with fire. He made an inebriated dive out of the way into a snow drift, narrowly being missed by the demon horse.

He had landed in the mound headfirst, but from within the snow he could hear the animal pound to a halt and a muffled feminine voice exclaim, "Oh, my! I am _so_ sorry!"

Someone was tugging on his coattails, trying to pull him from the snowbank. He backed his way out and sat up, chunks of sobering cold white on his face and hair...and paused as he realized it was Constantina. She recognized him immediately as well, and without a word, released his coat and retreated back to her horse with fists clenched in loathing.

Spencer wiped his face, trying to clear the snow out of his eyes. "Wait…just _wait_ a moment…" He reached out for her, disconcerted that she too had chosen to come to this specific battleground at this specific time. Had she seen him enter the valley, or had she already been there for hours?

"You know what?" she said, turning around and stamping back towards him. "I'm going to do what you didn't give me a chance to do after you said that awful thing to me."

Without warning, she slapped him clean across the face. He was more in shock than pain by it, but still flexed his jaw and touched his cheek as he looked at her in surprise. She stood defiant before him, trembling slightly. "By the way…you _reek_ of booze!"

_She…_hit_ me_, Spencer stammered to himself. He rubbed his cheek, debating how to react. Before he realized what he was doing, he had already reached out with a reciprocating smack of his own.

This time, she gaped in surprise with a protective hand on her face. If she had still been a living human, she would have been red with rage. "You _asshole!"_ she shrieked as she lunged at him, strings of curses flying from her lips. They weren't just obscenities…they were demonic spells. She meant business.

Spencer caught her slim, bony wrists as her claw-like fingers came at his face, and they fell to the ground together, rolling through the snow, mud, twigs, and over shrubbery.

"I don't want to hurt you," he chortled sluggishly as she wrenched herself off of him and shook the ice out of her hair. She had cursed him with exhaustion, and between that and his gut full of ale, he was having trouble standing up; he got to his feet filled with lethargy. "Look at this…fighting you is making me want to take a nap." Spencer's fingers slipped as he tried to draw one of his swords.

Constantina was visibly becoming more and more enraged by his mockery. While he continued fumbling with his sword, she pulled out an infamous little soul shard. A red haze rippled and circled about her as she quickly muttered an incantation to bring forth a demon.

An enormous, well-muscled felguard appeared at her side, wielding a rather intimidating double-bit axe. Spencer gazed at it, and wondered why he seemed to be having such bad luck with warlocks lately.

"…Oh come now, you can't be serious," the rogue sighed in fatigue, finally freeing the sword from its casing. That had been an immense effort in itself. However, any moment now the curse would wear off.

_Any moment now...yes, any moment... _

The curse vanished, and so did Spencer, emitting something that sounded like a giggle.

Constantina's face was a maelstrom of anger, and her nose crinkled up as soon as he disappeared. "Leave up to rogues and their cheap tricks. I—"

Before she could say more, there was a sharp_ thunk_ as Spencer brought the hilt of his sword down on the base of her skull, stunning her. She gasped and wilted forward like a dying flower, her spine locked. While she was unable to move, he went to work on the felguard.

The demon roared in disapproval at the incapacitation of his master, and slung his enormous axe at Spencer's head with a grunt. Duck, gouge, backstab, stab, stab, stab, evade, well-aimed shot to the kidney, stab, stab, stab, eviscerate…the rogue was a veritable blur of his "cheap tricks." And that was the end of the demon.

Spencer shook his limbs out like a dog after a bath as the creature fell and dissolved into nothingness. Constantina was still sapped of all bodily movement and could only moan in protest. Squaring his shoulders, he approached her...and gently pushed. She fell over onto the ground, relieved of her disorientation. Frantically, she got to her feet...

...and the rogue found himself fleeing, in total lack of control. He watched in dismay as he ran directly towards a fallen tree, but was unable to divert his course. As expected, he stumbled over the tree, tumbled down the hillside in a spray of disturbed dead leaves, and managed a face plant into some frozen mud right at the feet of a fully-armored human paladin astride his glorious mount.

"Bur!" the paladin yelled in his strange tongue.

"What's so funny?" Spencer muttered in Common, as he stood and wiped the mud from his face.

"This," the paladin replied. He promptly dismounted, and the next thing Spencer knew, he was unable to move. He could see, however, that an entire pack of Alliance members were emerging from the forest and moving to encircle him.

He silently begged Constantina not to come down the hill to seek him out.


	9. David and Goliath

The human paladin had struck Spencer so hard that he couldn't move. The shock of the blow overwhelmed him entirely, making him crumple to his hands and knees in blistering agony. His grey skin was searing with holy magic. It didn't feel nearly as blissful as when the same sort of magic was used to heal him. A nearby night elf released his pet, and the giant tiger was all too eager to gnaw on Spencer's exposed bones. The beast lumbered up, and with a throaty roar, it latched its claws into the rogue's back and pulled.

Spencer was being dragged through the sticks and frozen mud now, with barely a hope of gaining an advantage. The big cat's talons were slipping downwards, ripping through tendon and jerky-like latissimus muscles as it pulled. At its master's command, it released Spencer, but stood apathetically on his neck to keep him immobile. His open wounds leaked out black onto the stark white snow

"Look what I found," a female human rogue crooned. She yanked Constantina by the arm behind her as she entered the clearing. A shuddering exhale escaped Spencer upon seeing she'd been captured.

"Should we kill them, or take them prisoner?" a dwarf asked as he leveled his muzzleloader at Constantina.

"It's more honorable to just kill them now," a gnome mage piped up. "I can do it real quick, if you like. Both at the same time."

"Why should you have all the fun?" the night elf hunter retorted. He pointed to his tiger. "Shaggy will want leftovers, I'm sure. He really loves bone marrow…and by the looks of this one," he aimed his long manicured finger at Spencer, "he's been marinating for quite some time."

The paladin wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Rotting, you mean."

Spencer found himself becoming drowsy. Whether it was from the alcohol, being severely beaten, or loss of his deadened blood, he was unsure. Maybe if he closed his eyes, only for just for a second…

"Spencer, don't you dare!" Constantina lunged towards him, but the rogue woman had a firm grip, not to mention an enormous knife in her back. "Keep your damn eyes open!" she pleaded.

"Oh, that's adorable," the mage said. "She wants him to live. They came to the wrong place for that sort of unreasonable expectation."

"Tell you what," the paladin strode over to Spencer, shooed the cat away, and hauled him to his feet by his coat collar. "Let's be sportsmanlike about this, shall we?" He made a mocking attempt at brushing the mud and snow off his torn opponent. "Man to—" he grimaced "_man_, hand to hand, one on one. That'll be fairer, right?"

Spencer looked at Constantina. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. He stood as straight as he could muster with his gaping back, his trademark leather coat now in ribbons. "I'm sorry for what I said." He unhitched his belt buckle, letting his weapons fall into the snow.

"Pick your adversary," the paladin commanded. "Let's get this over with quick. We have a valley to capture."

Spencer raised a shaking hand and pointed at the rogue restraining Constantina. "I win…she goes free."

The rogue woman cackled. "But you're not going to win…so you both get to die." She shoved Constantina into the grasp of the hunter and threw her knife point-first into the snow. "I don't really give a piss about being fair," she said as she doffed her cutlery as well, "but I'll match you on equal terms in the spirit of fun and 'sportsmanship'." She jeered at her paladin comrade.

"That's not all," Spencer shook with pain. "When I win…I'm going to eat you." He looked around at their captors encircling them. "All of you." There was an eruption of dubious giggles and exclamations of "ew."

"I think he's lost too much of that shite that's supposed to be blood," the rogue woman snarled. "Sweetheart, you're ridiculously outnumbered. Not to mention that plenty more of us will be arriving down here soon to eliminate your bastard commander." She stretched her arms out in front of her and cracked her knuckles, warming up.

Spencer didn't wait for anyone to say "go." With all his failing strength he charged at the fellow rogue as she was prepping, and she evaded him in surprise.

"Wow," she said. "You have a lot more stamina then most live men I know." She ignored the paladin's scowl as she chambered her fist back and whipped a punch into Spencer's face. The bystanders around them chortled, save for Constantina, who was continuing to scrabble for release. The hunter had gagged her with an animal collar to prevent her from speaking any kind of spells or curses.

Spencer once again found himself on the ground. The punch had whirled him away from the other rogue and bystanders...and he was pretty certain they hadn't seen him conceal the stone in his angrily trembling hand…

"Get your filthy carcass up and fight back," the woman spat. "Ugh," she muttered as she inspected her hands. "I got his nasty blood under my fingernails…I better not get infected. Lords, look, he's getting it all over the damn place."

Spencer was growing numb now, and indeed most of the area was stained with the inky substance seeping from his wounds. It was difficult to feel the rock in his fingers, so he wrapped it up tightly in his fist, out of sight. Closing his eyes, he mustered enough impetus to stealth. The woman rogue laughed, then stealthed as well.

He didn't move. He crouched silently on his stomach, and Constantina eagerly staring at the spot where he'd disappeared. There were no disturbances in the snow, no foot prints miraculously appearing, and no sounds of fleeing. Neither rogue was moving.

"This is going to take forever," the mage yawned. "Rogue fights are dumb."

There was no response from the human female, presumably because she did not want to give up her position. The clearing was silent for several moments. Everyone looked around at each other.

"This is ridiculous," the hunter grumbled. He struck the butt-end of a flare with the hilt of his knife and tossed it to the ground. The two rogues were immediately exposed in the magnesium glow. The woman froze. Constantina gasped.

Spencer was in the same place, only now he was standing with his arm reaching back, stone in his fist. He saw the woman appear, and as hard as he possibly could, he hurled the rock at her face. It made contact with the center of her forehead. The resulting sound of the impact was sickening. The crack of stone against skull echoed off the surrounding sheer cliffs. She toppled backwards like a falling tree, collapsed into the snow, and did not move.

"No!" The paladin rushed to her side. The rest of the Alliance entourage stared in disbelief at the fallen rogue. Spencer stood his ground. Slowly, the paladin, the hunter, and the mage all turned toward him.

"She's dead," the paladin whispered in disbelief. "She's _dead!_" He whirled to face Spencer.

The rogue stared down the group, his stance aggressive. The hunter still had hold of the bound and gagged warlock.

"Release her," Spencer breathed.

The rest of the entourage did not answer.

"That was the deal," Spencer growled, taking a threatening step towards them. "I win, the girl goes free."

The paladin was enraged. "Are you really so ignorant as to believe we would uphold any sort of 'deal' with _you?_"

The resonating sound of thunder through the valley interrupted them. The giant cat heard it first, and moaned in alarm at the hunter. The deep tremor grew quickly, until the ground itself began to shake. Suddenly, an immense wave of Horde coalition crested the hill above, and washed down straight towards them into the valley like a hellacious avalanche. The small Alliance group that had been terrorizing them was lost in the roaring throng. Spencer and Constantina remained untouched as their slaughtering brethren swept through the area.

When it was all over, Spencer and Constantina were alone and panting in the clearing. The warlock raised her bound wrists to him. He sliced through them, but left her gagged. She gave him a dirty look and pulled the old leather collar out of her mouth.

"Spencer…I don't believe it."

They looked around in amazement at the fallen Alliance bodies – the hunter, the rogue, the paladin, the mage, and even the tiger.

"What do we do now?" Constantina asked quietly.

Without hesitation, Spencer replied, "I plan to do exactly as I said I would." And with that, he dropped to his knees before the bodies of his fallen enemies. He leaned over them, and greedily began to eat.

* * *

It was several hours before they made it back to the inn. Spencer had Malek meet them so they could recount their tale. Spencer had completely recovered from his wounds due to the disturbing yet wonderful phenomenon of cannibalism. However, his oilskin coat had suffered a much worse fate. Luckily, the leather workers in Orgrimmar were extremely talented, albeit extremely expensive.

The three of them ate dinner together in relative silence. Malek retired early up to his room, and Spencer escorted Constantina back to hers. He wordlessly entered the room and placed her belongings in the nearby talbuk-horn chair.

"Is there something bothering you?" Constantina inquired. "You've been awfully quiet."

Was she serious? Of course there was something wrong. She was persistently the source of his frustration and worry.

"I can't continue being responsible for you," Spencer told her. She sat before him on the bed, staring at her hands in her lap.

"Then don't be," she muttered. "I never asked you to be."

"You're making it extremely difficult. Is it really coincidence that we were in Alterac together? If you hadn't been there, none of this would have happened. Why can't you just stay out of trouble?"

Constantina snapped her head up and glared at him. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't speak to me as if I were a child. What were _you_ doing in Alterac, if not to seek out trouble?"

Spencer didn't answer.

"What other reason could you possibly have, other than looking for trouble? You're a goddamn hypocrite, Spencer. You always are, and it makes me sick. You're not my father."

"Get out."

"You're in my room, idiot. _You_ get out."

This would be the second time that Spencer stormed out on her, and that was unacceptable. He didn't want to create the false impression that he was constantly afraid of confronting her. That just wouldn't do.

"No."

Constantina snorted out a laugh. "Excuse me?"

He pursed his lips. This was on the verge of becoming awkward.

"Spencer, we're done here."

"Well, apparently you feel I have a poor perception of you. Why don't we clear up any misunderstandings and confusion?"

"We are not having this conversation…again." Constantina waved her hand at him dismissively and moved to the window on the opposite side of the room. "How many quests do I have to go on with you and your ridiculous friends to prove that I can hold my own?"

"These excursions you keep referring to were ages ago. They were child's play. Killing twenty spiders for a recipe is not a credible display of skill and reliability."

"You are just a real piece of work, Spencer." Constantina shook her head at him, aghast. "You know what? I _was_ going to thank you. Thank you for saving my life and actually exhibiting some semblance of concern. But forget it. Just forget it."

Someone pounded on the heavy wooden door; the pair stiffened in alarm. Spencer drew a sword and checked the peephole. He sighed and re-sheathed the weapon before letting Malek in.

"For gods' sake, I can hear you from down the hall," the orc hissed.

Spencer and Constantina shot each other a look.

"I'd tell you two to get a room, but…" Malek trailed off and gestured to the obvious surroundings. "What the hell are you doing?"

Secretly, Spencer was relieved that Malek had interrupted. He was growing weary of these altercations with Constantina.

"Spencer was just detailing the finer points of his stupidity," she spat.

"…And Constantina was detailing the finer points of her inadequacies," the rogue replied calmly. This was starting to get childish now.

Malek looked at them both and erupted into laughter. "Alright, break it up. It's time for bed," he chortled, trying his best to use his 'daddy' voice.


	10. And Then There Were Five

_Author's Note: I rearranged and edited the previous chapter a bit, so if you'd consider re-reading it, I'd be insanely happy :D Also, ultimately, I think I'm going to end up editing the entire story and reposting it at some point. I'll let you know :)_

_

* * *

_

The heat was intense, but pleasant. Dry. The wind whipped around Spencer, buffeting him with a spray of sand. He stood for a moment to let the heat seep through his bones. It wasn't often that he felt warm, and he welcomed the unforgiving sun beating down from overhead.

Something in the distance caught his eye. It shimmered on the horizon, mirage-like and inviting. He squinted, straining to see through the scorching brightness. Uncertainly, he began to walk towards it, his spurs clanging dully in the dust swirling around his boots. As he advanced, the flickering image began to take shape. It seemed to be a collection of palm trees, which might indicate—

An oasis.

The warmth was thick and wonderful, but Spencer was thirsty as hell. He hurriedly approached the verdant sanctuary, an island in the desert. He eagerly broke through the lush foliage, all manners of exotic creatures crying out and fleeing from his path.

Finally he reached the edge of a pool, crystal clear and flat as glass. He watched his reflection for a moment, impressed with the stillness of the water, but feeling the usual disgust that was invoked whenever he looked at himself. He had been a man once; he could feel that part of him still existed. The essence of his former self was not gone entirely—it was simply shrouded, enveloped by something much, much darker.

He knelt to drink. Before he could lower his cupped hands into the cool spring, he was met with a series of ripples. Alarmed, he reached for a weapon and looked up to find the source of the disturbance.

It was Constantina.

The warlock was on the far side of the pool, with her bare back to him. His breath caught in his throat, fearing he'd been seen, but she hadn't seemed to notice his presence. He realized then, that she was completely naked, bathing waist-deep in the spring.

Spencer stealthed immediately, looking away and feeling immensely awkward that he'd stumbled upon her in such an…exposed…state. Yet, he couldn't seem to compel himself to walk away and allow her privacy.

Raising his eyes once more, he released his sword and watched her movements, her shape, the way her hair trailed down her back, how the curve of her hips disappeared into the water. She raised a cloth to leisurely rinse down her shoulders and chest, perfectly oblivious to Spencer's observations.

Slowly, he rose from his frozen crouch and discretely crept down the shoreline to her side of the pool. His eyes followed her movements as he went— the way her eyes closed when she leaned backwards into the water to wet her head…how she pulled the boney tips of her fingers through her damp hair…

At last he reached the area where she'd left her clothing. For a split second, he entertained the idea of infuriating her by hiding her belongings.

But, against his better judgment, he dropped his stealth.

Constantina saw him immediately, and her eyes widened—not in fear or alarm, but with seemingly pleased astonishment.

"I thought I heard someone sneaking around," she said simply, giving him a knowing smile.

"What? How?" Spencer asked, offended. He had always prided himself in being an excellent rogue.

"You must have been too distracted to realize all the noise you were making."

Spencer looked back along his path to see there was indeed a fair amount of dried, fallen palm fronds littering the beach. Like an elephant, he must have crashed through them. He returned his attention to the very naked, seemingly un-modest warlock before him in the spring.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, attempting to maintain his composure and not let his eyes wander out of control.

"I'm here for the same reason you are," she replied calmly, trailing her fingertips through the water. A small, alluring smile lingered on her lips.

"You and I…we shouldn't be here," Spencer said irresolutely.

"You're here by your own decision."

They stared silently at each other for several moments, Spencer's eyes sweeping over her bare, pale body. He realized then that he never got his drink of water, and as he looked at her, he was now thirstier than ever.

"I'm parched," he croaked.

Constantina didn't answer; she turned her back to him once more, and slid out into deeper water. Spencer considered for a moment, swallowing hard. He wrestled with himself, his conscience, for several moments. There were so many reasons for him to just turn around and walk away.

But ultimately, he just couldn't stand it anymore.

Unclipping his belt, he dumped his gear in the sand, stripped off his shirt, and flung his boots off. He stepped hesitantly into the calm water and made his way through the rippling glass towards Constantina. She was waiting quietly, chest-deep, looking serenely out over the oasis. Spencer reached her finally, somewhat unsure of what to do…how to proceed. Tentatively, he reached out, trailing his fingers up her back before brushing her hair forward over her shoulder. She shuddered at his touch and gasped, turning her head slightly to watch him out of the corner of her eye.

Spencer's gaze swept across her bare, glistening shoulder. Before he could talk himself out of it, he gently grasped her shoulders, closed his eyes, and bent to kiss the nape of her neck.

"_SPENCE!_" Malek roared, kicking the heavy wooden door repeatedly.

"Gods damn it," Spencer panted, wrenching his eyes open in shock and confusion as he was jolted awake.

"Let's go," Malek ordered from outside in the hallway, his voice muffled. "You can sleep when you're dead."

Spencer grunted, not oblivious to the irony. He didn't move, except to severely clench his jaw. He stared at the vaulted, ornately carved ceiling of his room, splayed flat on his back, clinging to the rapidly dissolving bits and pieces of the dream.

It had been so realistic.

He cursed again as he swung his legs over the side of the hay-stuffed bed and sat up. He blinked rapidly and stared at the palms of his trembling hands; it had been a long time—a _very_ long time—since he'd had that sort of dream.

Even by the time he readied himself and finally made his way downstairs, he was still in a sluggish funk. He hadn't yet shaken himself out of the haze, and found he was completely unable to even look at Constantina. He hoped she would assume that he was still angry with her from the evening prior. That would be the easiest way to deal with it. With her. The further away he kept her, the easier everything would be.

"I found two more to join us," Malek reported happily to his undead comrades over morning coffee and whiskey (Spencer ordered a double). "They'll be arriving today to meet us."

Constantina curled her lip and drove her fork into a week-old burned ambercorn pancake. "Any more women joining this fiasco? I've about had it with the men."

Spencer ignored her; Malek grunted, "Yes, the mage joining us is of the female persuasion. Though I doubt the two of you will have time to go shoe-shopping or whatever it is you women do together."

Constantina stabbed him in the hand with her fork.

The two new members of their group were not expected to arrive until later in the afternoon. Constantina disappeared into the city by herself; Malek and Spencer meandered over to one of their favorite pubs for lunch and masculine repartee after spending some time in the auction house.

Spencer eventually resumed his foul mood from the evening before. As irate as he was by the warlock's presence, he realized now that he – _they_, he corrected himself – needed her. They needed a full group to navigate safely through Scholomance. It was difficult enough to find two other people, let alone trying to replace her. Still, he couldn't figure out why she had not yet left them of her own volition. He had been especially cruel and condescending to her at times (necessarily so, he justified to himself), so much that he was surprised she hadn't become fed up and abandoned them altogether.

Nevertheless, he found himself to be grateful. He would never admit it to her or Malek of course, but she brought him a certain contentment, a certain peace of mind…when she wasn't maddening him.

* * *

Scholomance. The school of necromancy, once the extravagant estate of the wealthy Barov family of Alterac, was foolishly donated in exchange for everlasting life. Instead, they were transformed into horrific undead creatures, forever damned to walk the halls of the school. The entire area was infested with Scourge apprentice necromancers. Granted, they were novices, but there were a _lot_ of them. Not to mention the instructors were intensely powerful.

"We need to come up with a strategy," Malek said grimly. They had met the two new members of their party, a troll priest and a troll mage, outside the inn. "This could get nasty."

"Don't be so unenthusiastic," Constantina chided. "These are my kind, remember? I think I know a thing or two about Necrolytes and Dark Summoners. We students of fel-based magic all study the same craft; they're just a willing to take it a little further." She shifted uncomfortably. "…Though I do admit the purpose of the shadow magic is to prolong the suffering of victims."

Malek looked at her in surprise. "You have a sinister streak after all, little girl. Someone must have seriously wronged you in life." He looked at Spencer. "She sort of reminds me of you." He grinned.

Spencer pushed Malek out of his way and approached the trolls. "I gather you two are well-experienced?"

The big one, Hephaestion, didn't answer; he merely polished several of his rare, particularly hard-to-obtain trinkets.

Summertree, the mage, sneered at the rogue. "You're the ones that asked us to come…we're not begging to join you, so if our skills are in question—"

"Spencer, there's no need to worry about them. I guarantee you, their skillfulness is no less than impressive," Malek grinned.

"It's okay," Constantina reassured them. "I'm used to being persistently questioned, too." She refused to look at Spencer.

"…Alright then," Malek said quickly, before the rogue could offer any sort of snide response.

They spent much of the afternoon devising a strategy, though much bickering and disagreement occurred rather than actual tactical planning. All of their roles had been clearly defined, and that seemed to be enough for Spencer.

"Look, we all know what our jobs are. We don't need to make things any more difficult or complicated," he pointed out.

"Yes, because we all know how you despise complications," Constantina muttered. It seemed she was taking shots at him today every chance she got.

The two trolls glanced at each other, and Malek flared his nostrils. Spencer pinched the bridge of his nose as though trying to stave off a headache. Constantina chewed her tongue.

"We can get to the neutral base camp tonight if we leave now and ride hard," Malek said, looking at the map of the Plaguelands region. "This is a new settlement…should be interesting." He turned to the mage.

"A portal to Undercity, if you would please, Summertree."


	11. Love Stories

_I want to reconcile the violence in your heart_

_I want to recognize your beauty is not just a mask_

_I want to exorcise the demons from your past_

_I want to satisfy the undisclosed desires in your heart_

—Muse, "Undisclosed Desires"

* * *

They reached the base camp in the early evening, just as an eerie mist began to roll in. The camp quite large; there were members from every faction here, so there was no shortage of fights in the libation tent. The camp was semi-permanent and well-tended to. There was basic plumbing (_very_ basic) at least, a few outfitters to provide the necessities, and several pavilions dedicated to producing the finest and most deliciously prepared cuts of meat. Spencer stopped in front of one as they passed by, and read the sign up above:

**MEATY TREATY**

**(no fighting here)**

Indeed, there were goblin guards stationed and patrolling throughout the camp. Spencer was pleased…he should be able to enjoy a nice fat steak in peace. He was ravenous, and on the verge of gnawing through his own dried cords of tendon.

The five found a proper site out of the way of traffic within the compound. Malek immediately dumped his belongings in the dirt. "I'll unpack later…I need to eat. Now." He too had been eyeing the meat tents, and wasted no time in disappearing with Hephaestion and Summertree.

Spencer curled his lip. Once again, the orc had left him alone with the girl. "Fantastic."

He turned to Constantina. "Look—" he began.

"I don't need a babysitter," she said quickly. "Go, if you're hungry too."

He nodded, paused a moment, then offered to bring her back something. She declined. He left.

Several hours later, when the sun began to set, a herald blew a conch shell to signal the Storyteller's arrival. Horde and Alliance alike, full of mead and meat, gathered together around the main fire circle to digest and listen to the enthralling tales being offered of war and romance. The herald stood beside the Storyteller, softly lulling out a poignant tune on a set of drone-pipes.

The Storyteller was good, no doubt about it. He had human women clutching the brawny arms of orc men during his stories of macabre horror, and even the most fearsome of trolls shed a tear or two while narratives of love, devotion, and triumph kept them all captivated.

Spencer had wandered over after his meal and large quantity of brew, just as twilight faded and the stars began to shine unsteadily in the cavernous black void overhead. The Storyteller was a very, very old Tauren, and likely narrating his own experiences. He was telling a love story that took place during the Troll Wars—the legend of an Amani forest troll who was not destined to be with his mate. Spencer observed that Constantina was included in the circle, seated near the feet of the ancient Tauren.

He chewed the inside of his lip as he moved to sit and listen to the story. The young warlock was across the way on the opposite side of the fire, the dancing flames illuminating the hollows of her cheeks. She hadn't yet noticed him; she watched the Storyteller intently, clearly engrossed in the mournful tale of love. Spencer leaned back against the nearby tree and stared lazily at her, studying the warm glow that danced along her face. She had her knees pulled up under her chin, her arms wrapped tightly around them. She looked cold.

"…And so, the new day began, and with the rising of the sun, T'zulapitu found himself transformed and rooted to the center of the sacrificial circle, in the exact spot his beloved's blood had been spilled. It was exactly as he promised—he would never leave her. This, my friends, is the origin of the bloodpetal." The Storyteller finished, and with a quiet bow, rose to retire to the main longhouse. There was a smattering of applause from the audience. Those around the fire began to wander off to their respective campsites as well, still under the miasma induced by fine storytelling.

Constantina released a long, deep sigh, then looked across the licking fire to catch Spencer intently gazing at her. Caught off guard, he stiffened and immediately averted his eyes. He could feel her watching at him, and sensed her curiosity. Keeping his chin lowered, he slowly met her eyes again. Their gaze locked above the tumultuous blaze; his stomach dropped. An ache came over him.

…He must have had too much to drink again. Not to mention he couldn't stop thinking about his dream. That stupid dream had changed everything.

Strangely compelled, he slowly rose to his feet and moved to her side of the fire. Positioning himself on the ground beside her, he removed his coat and gently draped it over her shoulders. "You look like you need this more than I do."

"Thank you, Simon."

Spencer paused. That was the first time she had ever called him by his first name. He wasn't sure if he liked it. They sat beside each other in silence for a moment, both staring thoughtfully into the dancing flames.

A musical quartet approached the fire, two male goblin gourd-drummers and a pair of troll belly dancers. The svelte girls were costumed in lovely blood-red scarves, wooden beads, and silver coin belts. The goblins sat with their feet bracing the large gourds, and began to beat out a slow, sensual rhythm.

"You mind if I lay down?" Constantina asked.

"Not at all," Spencer replied, thinking that was something of an odd question. Why was she asking permission…?

He didn't have to consider it long before he found Constantina nestling into his shoulder.

…_Oh_.

Her head rested over his heart; had he still been a man of warm flesh and coursing blood, it would have been hammering wildly. Tentatively, he encircled his arm about her shoulders and held her against his side. With a bit of hesitation, he laid his leathery cheek against her hair…and smiled.

The belly-dancers wheeled around the bonfire as the two Forsaken watched with fixed, content gazes. The massive, flickering shadows of the dancers followed their mistresses in perfect form. The pulsating beat and warmth from the fire were immensely soothing; Spencer relaxed his body and allowed his eyelids to fall. Beneath his cheek, he felt Constantina stir. She let out a heavy, comfortable sigh.

Spencer tilted his head and looked at her suspiciously. It was suddenly clear that she had been drinking as well—he could smell the gentle singe of dwarven _dram buidheach _on her breath. It was pleasant; that particular distilled spirit was known for its delectable flavor, as well as its exceptionally high alcohol content.

She had to be completely loaded.

Now he was curious. Why on earth would she be drinking something so hard? Usually dwarven drams were reserved for holidays, and in low quantities because of their potency. Maybe she was depressed…was it because of him? He started feeling a little guilty for giving her such a hard time. She seemed in rather good mood now, though. She was cocooned within his oilskin coat, nestled peacefully against his side with her hand resting on his stomach.

"You're drunk," he said flatly.

"So are you," she muttered against him.

He couldn't refute that. "…I suppose."

Her hand slid from his stomach to his chest as she moved to look at him. Their faces were dangerously close.

"You never told me," he murmured, "why is it that you look so…well-preserved?"

Constantina fell silent and turned her face away. He inclined his head, curious. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but then clamped it shut again.

"I need to go…I need to go to bed," she finally said, her voice strained. Spencer blinked as she struggled to get to her feet. Had he said something wrong? He was sure that he had—it seemed to be a regularity for him to offend her.

She got up rather shakily, and he rose beside her. He didn't press the issue; he gripped her elbow instead, seeing she was a bit unstable.

"Alright," he agreed. "Let's get back to our site."

They walked silently, without hurry, beside each other through the heavy mist. Constantina was seemingly deep in thought. He looked over at her periodically, though tried not to show an excess of concern. The silence was peculiar, and even the lack of activity in the camps made Spencer's skin crawl. The fog seemed to absorb every bit of sound.

The two finally navigated their way back to their site, pausing outside her tent. She shivered, and for the tiniest moment, Spencer half-expected her to invite him in.

"Listen, Spence," Constantina began, her voice serious. He looked down at her, his placid eyes burning softly through the thick vapor in the air.

"Hm?"

"Remind me some other time and…we'll talk," she said wearily. She watched him, her own heavily-lidded eyes glowing intently.

He was unsure if she was just exhausted and drunk, or if she had some other dire reason to not answer his question. He froze as she moved her hand to pull her fingers through his dark hair.

"You should drink more often," she whispered. "I like you better this way." And with that, she turned and disappeared into her tent.

Spencer blinked, appalled that he was dismissed so abruptly. It took him a moment before he could finally move towards his own tent, his feet as heavy as bricks.

* * *

The next morning, Spencer was in a decidedly better mood. For the first time in a long time, he felt semi-content.

…And naked? Why was he feeling naked? Figuratively, of course.

His coat. Constantina hadn't returned his coat. She had disappeared with it to her tent the night before, and left him with nothing but a sleepy grin.

Which was another thing – he had actually slept. The best part was that he slept without nightmares or overwhelmingly inappropriate dreams. He actually felt well-rested, better than when he'd been in the poison coma. It was apparent in his posture and demeanor. He felt _damn_ good.

He rapped on the pole of Constantina's tent with the bone of his exposed knuckles. "I think you have something of mine."

"Oh, I'm sorry Spence," came a muffled yawn. "Can I ask you an enormous favor?"

"Hmm?"

"My robes are disgustingly filthy from all this travel. Do you have something relatively clean I could borrow?"

Spencer scowled, retrieved his pack, and thrust it through the flaps of her tent.

The muffled voice came again. "Thank you, kind sir."

"Don't mention it," he grumbled. Then under his breath: _"Bucephalus…"_

The colossal black mount emerged from the forest and tossed his head. Spencer patted the horse's boney neck and began to load up the miscellaneous camp supplies into the saddlebags. He dismantled his tent, rinsed out his tankard, kicked dirt over the dying fire…his mind elsewhere…

"So what do you think?"

Spencer turned at the sound of Constantina's voice, and tightly clenched the bedroll in his hands. She stood before him, hands planted on her hips, dressed head to toe in his clothing. Of course, she had chosen his favorite black wyrmscale trousers. But he wasn't really too bothered…not at all. His crimson collared shirt was too big on her, and she had the cuffs rolled up to her elbows.

"Well?"

"You look…not like a warlock," he finally said.

"Yes, that may be a problem. What are these pants, leather? I won't be able to draw any kind of useful energy from them. Awfully comfortable, though."

"I can draw power from them just fine," Spencer grinned.

"Yes, thank you. Let's get my clothing washed as soon as possible so you can get me out of your pants."

Spencer bit his tongue. Constantina giggled.

"Well, well," came Malek's voice. "Looks like you two are getting along just swimmingly. That's…weird."

"Don't get too excited. She'll hate me again in no time," Spencer scoffed.

Constantina's face fell upon seeing that Spencer had already kicked out the fire.

"Damn," she said.

"Relax," he told her as he reached into a saddle bag. He pulled out a small satchel of nuts and dried fruit, and tossed it to her. "You're not, uh…a little hungover this morning?"

"Absolutely not!" she said cheerily, shoving a handful of salted ambercorns into her mouth. Malek raised an eyebrow as he packed up his gear. Hephaestion and Summertree had already loaded their gear onto their mounts.

Spencer eyed her dubiously. She quickly and effortlessly tore down her tent, behaving rather chipper and lively. She displayed no apparent sign of last night's alcoholic endeavors.

"Unbelievable," he said under his breath as he climbed into his saddle.

"Right behind you," Constantina sang, rapidly packing up her things. In no time she was astride her fiery beast as well, and they were on their way to Scholomance.


	12. Confessions

"Good morning, Miss Cassie."

"Good morning, Mr. Spencer."

Simon, age nineteen and hair dark as night, flitted between the booths of the marketplace. Cassandra was on the opposite side of a fruit cart, inspecting the apples.

"Will you be making a pie, Miss Cassie?" Simon asked eagerly, his blue eyes glittering as he watched her. She was magnificent.

"I am," Cassandra responded, not really giving him her full attention. "Don't you have some horses to shoe, or somesuch?"

"I do," Simon admitted. "But I was wondering, Miss Cassie—" he maneuvered around the vendor's cart to confront her. "—I was wondering if you'd like to accompany me to the Brewfest this weekend."

"Well…" Cassandra considered, hesitant.

"I'll win you a wolpertinger," Simon promised.

"Oh, really?" she grinned. "From what I've seen, that takes a sufficient amount of alcohol."

"Indeed it does, Miss Cassie." Simon beamed at her. He was ecstatic. It seemed she was actually considering accepting his invitation. He'd asked her out several times before, but was repeatedly shot down. Most of her excuses typically involved something about father's hair-trigger temper.

"Hmmmm."

"Please do me the honor, Miss Cassie."

"Alright, alright," she laughed. "But on one condition."

"Anything."

"Carry this." She handed over her fruit basket, and Simon took it eagerly. They strolled around the market together for several hours, discussing current events, the weather, and asking questions of each other. They settled for lunch at the small open-air extension of the pub.

"Where is your father?" Simon asked tentatively as he raked through his baked chicken breast with mushroom sauce. "There must be some explanation as to why you're willing to interact with me today."

Cassandra laughed, the sound clear and high, music to Simon's ears. He could make her laugh. That was good.

"You're so clever," she chided. "My father is away for a few weeks. So yes, I'm allowing myself a few liberties." Simon grinned.

"You must understand," she continued sternly. "As long as I reside with him I must obey his rules." She didn't elaborate, but it wasn't difficult for Simon to read between the lines—her father didn't want her fraternizing with a farm boy. She was of the higher-class sort, but that didn't intimidate him in the least.

"…Then perhaps you should move out," Simon suggested, gnawing on a thigh bone. Cassandra gasped.

"Mr. Spencer, you are too bold," she whispered with a subtle grin. He returned the smile, admiring her features. Her hair was like spun gold, light and airy in the afternoon sun. It almost hurt him to look at her, for the ache grew overwhelming at times.

He'd known from the first moment he saw this girl, he would marry her. He knew they could make each other happy for a lifetime.

* * *

Spencer and Constantina rode side-by-side through the Plaguelands, their horses plodding steadily down the decrepit cobblestone path. Malek and the trolls were ahead, deep in their own conversation. From what Spencer could tell, they were still trying to determine a concrete strategy. He rolled his eyes.

"So," Constantina finally broke the silence as they casually lumbered along. "Why a rogue?"

Spencer was thoughtful for a few moments. "Well," he began, "I never had much use for magic. Never really good at it, either. I was always pretty good with my hands, though…with tools. I was athletic…" he trailed off, thinking back to his younger days.

"Do you remember much? From before?"

"Before we were released from the Scourge?"

Constantina nodded.

Spencer furrowed his brow. "Not really. It got to the point where I dreaded sleeping. So I just stopped. I was having constant, horrific nightmares…I'm not sure if they were memories. Not that we really need to sleep anyway, but it's force of habit, you know? Routine." Constantina nodded again.

"But lately," Spencer continued without thinking, "My dreams have been much more—" he stopped.

"Much more what?"

"I…er, not so scary," he said quickly. "I've been sleeping much better." He had noticed a definitely change in his energy lately. He felt more vibrant, more alert.

He returned her inquiry. "So, why a warlock?"

Constantina turned her gaze away from him and looked straight ahead, her features slack. The side of Spencer's face twitched; she'd had a similar reaction when he asked why she looked so well-preserved. He expected her to shut down the line of conversation once again.

"I suppose I did say I'd tell you the story," she murmured, barely audible over the clopping of the horses.

"Well, you said we'd talk."

She stared ahead for several moments, as if trying to determine where to begin.

"I had eaten the infected grain," she finally said, her voice rigid. This hardly surprised Spencer; this had been the case with many undead. He already had many questions, but he let her continue.

"I didn't realize it was infected, of course. I learned afterward, when we discovered the soldiers were coming." She seemed to sag a bit in the saddle as she recounted her experience.

"They slaughtered everyone," she breathed, her shoulders quavering.

Spencer looked at her seriously. He felt an impulse to reach over to her, but instead tightened his fists around his reins.

"My entire family," she said, struggling to regain her composure. "Everyone except for me, because I ran. And then," she said matter-of-factly, "I killed myself."

Spencer jerked his head up to look at her in surprise. "…What?"

"I fled into the Alterac Mountains," she went on. "I refused to be run through like some ailing animal. After I'd seen my parents slain like defective cattle, I couldn't stand the thought of enduring the same luck. So I decided I would kill myself rather than allow those butchers the satisfaction.

"There was a frozen lake; all I had to do was tread on the thinnest parts of the ice until I fell through. And that— " she shrugged—"that was it." She paused for a moment to straighten her posture and flip her hair back over her shoulder.

"Of course, it didn't really matter in the end. We all came back anyway. I naively thought that if they couldn't find my body, then it wouldn't be desecrated."

She was visibly angry now, and Spencer was a total loss for words.

"And why a warlock?" he asked again, after she seemed a little more collected. Constantina coughed out a short, bitter laugh.

"I tried everything. The priests sure as hell didn't want me. The mages shunned me. And—no offense—but could you imagine me as a rogue? Or a warrior?" She didn't wait for him to answer.

"No…it seems that since I had the audacity to off myself, to commit suicide, it seemed I was only 'worthy' of powers suitable for Hell. Holy magic refused to course through my veins."

"I never knew it worked like that," Spencer said with quiet surprise.

"Well," she said stiffly, "I suppose we all get what we deserve."

"None of us deserved this," he snapped.

Constantina fell silent; Spencer was having a difficult time trying to decide how he felt about her story. He reminded himself that he too had once tried to kill himself, despite the fact that he was already a corpse.

Before they'd realized it, the entrance to the palatial Scholomance loomed before them, the stench of time and decay emanating forth. The air was thick with a vague odor reminiscent of vomit. The group dismounted and stood before the heavy wooden door, mentally preparing themselves for the skirmishes that lay ahead. Now that they were lingering in the doorway, the reality of Spencer's impending vengeance suddenly struck him. He felt empowered. He felt lethal. And he knew that in the end, he would feel triumph.

"Anyone have the key?" he asked.

Everyone looked around at each other.

"You've got to be kidding," Malek snorted. "Spence, can't you pick it?"

Sighing, the rogue pulled out a leather kit. He unrolled it out onto the ground, and selected two funny hook-ish tools. He worked at the lock for a good five minutes or so, interchanging utensils, until he hit the door with his fist in vexation.

"I can't pick it. It's a bicentric cylinder."

"What the hell does that mean?" Constantina asked.

"It has two plugs and two sets of pin chambers instead of one. And the lever pack has some sort of security barrel around it. We don't get training for that…and needless to say, the tool kits we get are pretty substandard."

"So you're saying you only have _rudimentary_ lock pick training?" Summertree asked scornfully.

"The locks in Azeroth aren't usually too challenging," Spencer retorted. "Most of the time we're only asked by people like _you_ to open up cache chests and lockboxes."

Everyone looked around at each other again. The group stood in silent deliberation for several moments, trying to resolve their dilemma. Sighing, Spencer leaned against the door, puzzled and distraught. Perhaps, if they were lucky, someone else with business here would arrive with a key. And then, of course, he would kill them and take it.

* * *

Cassandra had been the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. He'd first met her in the marketplace when he was a teenager, but it wasn't until he was twenty-two when he finally convinced her to be his wife. He never thought he could love someone so unconditionally.

They'd tried for years to start a family, with no success. When the idea of becoming parents began slipping away into futility, Cassandra finally conceived. It occurred to Spencer now that she may have invoked some sort of dark magic to achieve that. It didn't matter. He had loved his son. He had loved his wife. And now, he had neither. He was left with nothing but a cursed state of decrepit immortality.

Constantina reminded him of his younger years, during a time when he was carefree and in love. He hated that. He hated that she invoked that foolish sense of peace within him. He didn't want to be at peace. He wanted to complete his mission and have his closure. He wanted his retribution, to balance the scale; to pay what was owed. It was so ingrained within his being that it was difficult now for him to imagine any other sort of existence.

He snorted. The thought of an undead 'living' happily and carefree was completely ridiculous. What was his purpose in undeath, if not to punish those that had wronged him?

"I need your finger," Constantina's voice came, disrupting his thoughts.

"Wha-at?" Spencer said in alarm. She grabbed his hand, folding all his fingers back except his index. Turning, she maneuvered his hand and leaned back onto it, so that his jagged digit was pushing up under her shoulder blade.

"Ahhh, yes," she encouraged. "That muscle always bothers me after riding."

Spencer was rigid with terror, blinking rapidly. After a pause and a great deal of hesitation, he shifted his hand to press his thumb into her back to facilitate the massage. Malek, still struggling with the door, turned and stared wide-eyed at him.

"Mm," she heaved a sigh and lolled her head to the side. He watched as she craned her neck, her hair falling away. There was something vaguely familiar about this…

He held his breath as he gently kneaded the tense muscle with the blunt side of his thumb. He pushed deeply and slowly, in a wide circular motion. She exhaled slowly in relief, and leaned back toward him a bit more. There was some sort of ignition within him then, and that's when he knew it was imperative he stop. Abruptly, he pulled his hand away.

"Excuse me," Constantina complained. "But that was hardly a decent back-rub."

"Sorry," he said unconvincingly. "I'm a rogue, not a masseuse." She turned and gaped at him, visibly irate. With that, he simply turned and walked away.

That had been too much. Even the evening prior by the fire had been too much. He'd been careless. Sloppy. He'd let it get out of hand, and he couldn't allow it to continue.

Bitterly annoyed with himself, he stalked off into the forest, ignoring the inquiries of concern by his comrades. After several moments, he stopped to lean against a tree, too disgusted to go any further.

A hand gently gripped his shoulder. It was Constantina; of course she had followed him. He knew without looking. It was always her. She was always there.

"What do you want?" he growled, refusing to turn his head.

"…I'm sorry," she said, barely audible. "For whatever I did."

He looked back at her then, his eyes searing. "What makes you think it's anything to do with you?"

Well, it was, really. If she'd never come on this ridiculous jaunt, he wouldn't have had any problems. He would have been distraction-free. He could have been as cold and ruthless as was required, without being burdened by unwise ruminations. He would have been focused. He felt impeded.

Constantina raised a condescending eyebrow. "Come now. I'm not blind. I may be undead, but I'm still a woman. I'm still capable of sensing…things."

Spencer sucked in a sharp breath as she drew her fingertips lightly down his back.

"Please go," he rasped.

"No," she murmured. There was no tenacity or defiance in her voice, only quiet patience.

Spencer narrowed his eyes at her, examining her expression. This was panning out to be, yet another, confrontation.

It was pointless to ask her what she wanted from him—he already knew. It his opinion, she had a silly little crush. Silly and insignificant. He knew that he could not give her what she needed—he was no longer capable of providing that sort of care for someone. He'd succumbed to that sort of emotion before, and he was left with nothing but darkness and revulsion. He'd been ruined.

He searched Constantina's face, and finally, he slowly shook his head.

"I…can't," he said in a low voice.

"But you can," she insisted. "You're so hellbent on vengeance that you've forgotten how to be happy." She clasped her hands and looked at her feet. "Deep inside, you're still a man. That hasn't changed."

It all sounded too simplistic to Spencer. Too foolish. Too wishy-washy. Happiness?

"Happiness…is a luxury," he snapped, curling his lip. "This isn't a fairytale. We are at _war._ There are evil creatures in this world that insist on destroying everything that matters. It's not realistic to anticipate or afford something as trivial as personal _happiness_." He spat the word with disgust. Constantina blinked at him.

"Trivial?" she echoed. "Are you a masochist? You're the only one keeping yourself shackled. Whether you want to acknowledge it or not, you're still capable of every human aspect. I've seen it in you, Simon."

The all-too-familiar spark of vehemence began to rise within Spencer once again.

"I am _not_ human," he snarled. "They betrayed us. Took everything away that we loved. Condemned us."

Constantina gazed at him sadly, and he couldn't stand to look at her. The look on her face was too much like pity.

Ruffled, he turned and began to trudge away. Something occurred to him then, and he turned back momentarily.

"Why are you so content to just let your family's death go unpunished?" he asked.

"I'm not," she admitted. "I'm not content at all. But if I let it consume me, then I'm no better than those that have been committing these atrocities."

Spencer faltered a bit at her words.

"That's how I know," she continued. "That we're not still cold, mindless corpses incapable of compassion or remorse. We can make choices. We have free will."

The rogue looked at her wordlessly for several moments. He was unsure of what to say.

"I need to do this," he finally uttered, trembling slightly. "She took everything from me."

"I know," Constantina affirmed. "We're all here to help you, remember?"

Spencer set his jaw as she approached. "Is that really why _you're_ here?" he inquired. "To 'help' me?"

"Of course."

"Why?"

Constantina heaved an exasperated sigh. "Because I care about you, Simon. I know you've never really considered me a friend aside from being guildmates, but it's hard for me to see you so tormented."

Spencer closed his eyes. He refused to perpetuate her girlish infatuation. She didn't know him. She didn't realize what he was capable of, and how completely frightening and unattractive those things were. It was sad, really.

Simon Spencer hadn't always been a rogue. In life, he had not been a holy paladin of the light, nor one of the king's brave soldiers. He'd never been adept at wielding magic, nor did he have the desire to be. He'd been a simple farmer, who enjoyed simple pleasures. He tended orchards, raised horses, milked cows and goats, and planted his crops.

His demise, however, had some adverse effects on him. The death of his son and betrayal of his wife had warped his personality. After his awakening, he was reclusive and avoided most public areas. He shrank away into the shadows from passers-by, out of sight and out of mind. His fascination with the glittering dagger was the ultimate decisor for his profession, along with his ability to fade away into nothingness.

He'd been used as a horrible tool indeed, and once he'd regained his individuality, he was left with nothing but fear, hate, and a thirst for revenge.

"Just remember, Simon," Constantina said as she turned to rejoin the group. "Things can change. Things always change. And I'm going to prove to you right now just how helpful I can be."


End file.
